


I can bring you in warm

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Children of the Watch, Crossover, Din and Grogu do not appear, Dreams, F/M, Mandalorian sects, Romance, Vignette, but there is plenty of beskar, the creed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Others wonder about the Ancient Way.
Relationships: Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney
Kudos: 2
Collections: Mercy Street Crossover Advent Silver and AU





	I can bring you in warm

J’ededi was a Child of the Watch, a foundling among foundlings, and he’d found as he grew that the purpose and ethos of the Creed was one that required little sacrifice from him; to aid his comrades, to fight when fighting was called for, to the death, for the honor, to heal when healing was called for, for the honor. He revered each piece of beskar as he won it, its silver gleam reflecting everything he needed to see. He had no urge to remove his helmet among others, even if he sometimes wondered whether the rumors were true, that there were Mandalorians who did so. That there were…alternatives.

And then there was Mhairie, who spoke sharply of right and wrong, who spoke softly to the new foundlings, who fought with a preternatural grace. She sought the counsel of the Armorer over the cauldron as much as the traverse of the stars. She was held in solemn respect by the other members of the Watch, a worthy adversary, a deadly foe. 

J’ededi was tormented by the desire to see her face. To hear her voice was enough to stoke the flame within him, to see her lithe form beside him in battle, even the faint fragrance she carried, of namana flowers and daybreak. He railed against his urges, he argued with himself to the point of distraction, he drank the potent ale the Mandalore favored. He wept, if he admitted the truth. And then he began to dream.

Within the safety of the night, he saw himself lifting her helmet up, the gleam of dark braided hair or unruly curls netted back. He saw her lifting the silver rim first, the steady arc of her arms sweeping the visor away, her lips unsmiling, her eyes clear, a color that was not nameable, like the nameless moon of the Southern eremos. He saw himself touching her cheek with a gauntleted hand, Mhairie turning into his bare palm, her lips soft, parted. He saw her silent, refusing to ask of him what she had given and he knew the way he would have to breathe deeply to keep his hands from shaking as he took his own helmet off. 

Dreams, he told himself, did not matter. Dreams were not a violation. Dreams could be remembered. Cherished. Dreams could never come true.

This is the Way.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a line spoken by Din/Mando.


End file.
